


Addled

by caelei



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: cute though?, just pining really, maybe sad, nothing sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelei/pseuds/caelei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set during A Scandal in Belgravia, an hour or so after Sherlock beats Irene at her own game. </p><p>Warning: This is my first attempt at writing any sort of fanfiction ever. It's sure to be just awful! ^_^</p>
    </blockquote>





	Addled

**Author's Note:**

> Set during A Scandal in Belgravia, an hour or so after Sherlock beats Irene at her own game. 
> 
> Warning: This is my first attempt at writing any sort of fanfiction ever. It's sure to be just awful! ^_^

_And this is just losing._

_Sorry about dinner._

He doesn't look at her when he leaves.

 

"I'm tired," he says to John when he gets home, and shuts himself in his room. He stands by the door as he removes his coat, and it is there that he waits. He doesn't wait long.

"Sherlock?" comes the call. Just as he'd expected. John's voice sounds hesitant, and Sherlock knows what the doctor is thinking, that Sherlock is in trouble again. He had seen the state of the flat when he had rushed through, the slightly out of place books on the shelves, the cabinet door in the kitchen that had been hanging just ajar. John believes that Sherlock's addictions are calling to him tonight, in this moment of loss. This is a mistake of course, no doubt bolstered by a warning call from Mycroft while Sherlock was still on the taxi home. Sherlock doesn't understand their worrying. It's ridiculous to think that he would let a mere addiction dictate to him what he will or will not do or feel; even more ridiculous to think that this night Sherlock has actually suffered any loss. He, unlike The Woman, does not allow mistakes. So he had not fallen into the trap she had so cleverly set for the both of them. _I am SHERlocked._  Really. How ridiculous. He feels himself smiling.

"I'm fine, John," he says out loud.  _I am SHERlocked._  His good humor is from the thrill of victory. He can still feel the way his heart had beaten, so hard as he had leaned in across her to reach for the phone on the table. Oh he had treasured the way her eyes had glowed up at him, pupils dilated, her breath hitching with her own elevated heart rate as he drew near. These are the things that amuse him. And yet. Here, in his darkened room... there is another feeling other than pleasure, deep inside his chest. A sort of irritation, not unlike an ache. Automatically, his mind disregards any medical causes: he is healthy, despite his habits. His smile fades slightly as his eyes flick over the landscape of his room, and he remembers her lying, supposedly asleep and freshly washed from the shower, in his bed. Tucked into the covers.

There is no reason for the way he crosses suddenly to the bedside, save for the simplest: he is tired. That is all. He needs sleep after the day's excitement, so that his mind in the morning will work at its optimal levels. And if, as he stands over the bed and looks down upon it, he feels that irritation, that ache as it shudders once through his heart, it is only his exhaustion speaking, and nothing more.

Outside the door, he hears John sigh, then take in a sharper breath, preparing to call out once more. But nothing comes. He's decided against it. Sherlock hears a rustle of clothing, then the light tread of steady footsteps. John has left him alone. Good. But even as he stands in the empty room, Sherlock knows that is not exactly right. He's not quite alone.

The light is not on, but the window lets in the glow of the moon and the streetlamps outside, and it's more than enough. Sherlock stands over his bed, careful not to cast shadow on it. The covers are still rumpled, and he can read their patterns, can see her outline, lying there, the sheets conforming gently to her recognizable shape. He leans closer.

And there. On the pillows. A long, dark hair. And there. A slight pinkish smudge on the white material of the pillowcase.

This last interests him slightly, for she hadn't been wearing makeup when he'd found her in his bed. His mind considers the possibilities. The only conclusion: it's a message. He thinks of earlier when he had left the flat, escorted by Mycroft's silly dogs to the canceled Coventry plane. He had caught a glimpse of her standing in the window as they drove away, a flicker of curtains. And then when next he'd seen her, on the plane, she'd been prepared: carefully applied makeup, hair done in a pile on her head, the clinging black dress.

 _I am SHERlocked._ He can imagine her getting ready, here, in Baker's street. No doubt if he went to the bathroom he would find evidence of her presence, perhaps another long, dark hair coiled in his own hair brush, a bobby pin dropped to the floor, waiting under the sink, a capsule of dark lipstick tucked teasingly behind the mirror, as if she might come back for it one day. He finds himself smiling again, and assumes it must be at her ridiculousness. As if it mattered to him whether or not she came back. Certainly not. He would as soon have her here as have her away.

Still. His eyes have lingered on the smudge on his pillow. She must have brought a bag with her, a small thing likely, for overnight, where she had kept the dress and the makeup to access after he had left. She'd have taken that with her. But the lipstick on the pillowcase. She had left that behind. He can see her leaning over in the moments before she left, pressing her mouth softly to his pillow, a reminder. Now he reaches out a hand, touches a finger lightly to the mark of her lips. He shivers; the cold, naturally. Where is his dressing gown? He thinks about fetching it from its usual place, but then, no. It won't be in its usual place, will it? Intuitively, he pulls back the covers.

It's tucked into his bed, the facsimile of a sleeping woman with one of the arms crossed delicately over the hip, and he can still see her wearing it as if she lies there in truth. For a long moment he does nothing, just stares at it, taking in the posture. Then he draws back, walks around to the other side of the bed, and climbs in. For a long while, he lays straight on his back, staring up at the ceiling, breathing deep. Something tickles at his nose and the irritating ache in his chest redoubles, enough to thoroughly annoy him. He flops over onto his side, facing the dressing gown which lies beside him. A part of him doesn't want to disturb it, for some unutterable reason; a larger part of him says that disturbing the positioning of the gown is inevitable. He reaches over with one hand and grabs the light material, dragging it closer to him, and his nose tickles again. He inhales deeply.

It's a mixture of scents that is bothering him. His own soap and shampoo from the shower. A powdery, flowery smell, perhaps a light whiff of women's deodorant. And perfume. Her perfume. It's that which catches in his nose. He pulls the dressing gown ever closer, then pauses, his mind warring with his heart. _I am SHERlocked._ Irene Adler may be SHERlocked, but Sherlock Holmes isn't Addled. No, he isn't Addled.

That's what he tells himself as he presses the dressing gown to his face, curling the rest of the material up with him as he lays. He breathes in her scent, and puts his hand on the pillow where she left a kiss for him, and when he finally falls asleep he dreams of The Woman.


End file.
